Black Roses (32 page)

‘Quite an achievement,’ said Sigrid drily. ‘No doubt he surrounded them.’

Reynolds guffawed. ‘I heard a good one the other day. There’s a German steelworker whose wife wants a new pram. He can’t afford it, so he steals the parts one by one and attempts to assemble the pram. But he’s puzzled because every time he does, it turns out to make a machine gun!’

‘Does anyone really doubt that rearmament is underway?’ asked Spender.

‘No one I know,’ said Rupert, attacking his pig’s knuckle with gusto. ‘It’s proving it that’s difficult. And even if you did, it’s a problem getting anyone interested. You can practically hear my editor yawning down the phone. They’re getting tired of atrocity stories too. It’s come to something when your own newspaper agrees with Doktor Goebbels.’

‘Of course, you know why Goebbels detests us all,’ said Sigrid languidly. ‘He wanted to be a journalist himself. He sent fifty articles to the
Berliner Tageblatt
and they rejected them all. That was after all his novels and plays and poetry got rejected too. He decided it was because all the publishing houses were owned by Jews. The Ullsteins and the Mosses. I suppose we should recognize that rejection does dangerous things to a man.’

‘It’s not all bad.’ Rupert grinned. ‘He’s opening a fancy new press club on Leipziger Strasse for all the foreign journalists. So we can learn to love the new regime.’

‘Hey, Rupert.’ Mary passed him a copy of the
B.Z. am Mittag
that she had been reading. ‘Here’s a picture of your friend.’

In the middle pages was a story about how Magda Goebbels was choosing actresses to spearhead a new push for German fashion. There was a half-page photograph of the minister’s wife sharing space with a potted palm in the drawing room of her new home and on the opposite page a smaller photograph of Clara Vine posing in a brown, military style outfit that did nothing for her.

Rupert frowned. ‘What the hell is she up to?’ He took the paper and pored over it. Then he thrust it away again. ‘And to think it’s my fault she’s here.’

Observing the change in him, Mary wondered for a second if Rupert might be in love with the girl. The thought made her heart drop in the pit of her chest.

‘How did you meet her?’

‘What?’ he looked distracted. ‘Oh I had a friend back in London. A slightly raffish chap called Max Townsend, who’s been producing films out here. Clara was looking for work and I thought he’d be able to give her a part. To be honest, I never actually thought she’d take me up on it.’ He shrugged. ‘I suppose she’s just another one of those well-born English girls who are all too happy to see the sights, without seeing what’s underneath them.’

‘She didn’t strike me like that.’

‘What’s this girl doing anyway?’ said Sigrid Schultz, removing her pipe and leaning across.

‘She’s modelling that natural German look being promoted by Magda Goebbels.’

‘What natural German look?’

‘You know, no make-up, no trousers, no jewellery.’

‘No jewellery?’ queried Quentin Reynolds. ‘Frau Goebbels wears so many diamonds it’s like she had a fight with a chandelier.’

‘As for cosmetics,’ added Sigrid sourly, ‘those women look like they’ve won a free day on the beauty counter at KaDeWe.’

Their conversation was interrupted by a commotion from the opposite corner of the room. Two men in the brown shirts of the SA had entered the restaurant and walked towards the back. One was a huge meaty man with a face like a side of ham, the other an old-fashioned German, with tawny moustache sprouting from his face like the whiskers of a wild boar. Their target, a pallid man in his thirties, was sitting alone, sipping tea and doing his best to disappear into the newspaper he read. The fatter Nazi barged into the table, knocking the tea cup to the floor.

‘You’re taking up too much room!’

‘Forgive me.’ The pale-faced man apologized and ducked down to retrieve the broken cup.

‘His people always take up too much room,’ said the other. ‘They’re taking up too much room in Germany.’

‘Not for long!’

Before the others knew what was happening, Rupert had sprung up, approached the men and engaged in an energetic row. Mary saw them cast a glance across to their table, assessing how many men could be ranked against them if it came to a fight. They obviously decided they were outnumbered because after a large amount of shouting but no actual blows, the Brown Shirts left, overturning chairs and a further table as they went, sending tea glasses and plates flying and leaving the sound of smashed crockery lingering in the air. Rupert came back and inserted himself into his seat with unruffled ease as the waiter hurried across to clear the mess.

‘So you actually want to get yourself arrested then?’ said Quentin Reynolds with amusement.

‘The benefits of playing for the first fifteen.’

Rupert looked over at Mary, his good humour entirely restored. ‘I’ve got something I wanted to ask you.’

The cinema was a cheap, unremarkable place in Neukölln, where people huddled to while away a dull, weekday evening. It smelt of old beer and bodies, damp tweed coats and the smoke of a thousand cigarettes, ingrained forever in the velour seats. Clara’s ticket had arrived that morning.

Reifende Jugend, 7 p.m., admit one.

Reifende Jugend
was one of those films of “purely German character” that the authorities had decided everyone wanted to see. That probably explained the fact that the cinema was almost empty. It had been raining all afternoon, the dark clouds marching like storm troopers against a leaden sky, so Clara wore the old Burberry trench coat she had brought from home, with a hat pulled down over her eyes. Inside the cinema she stumbled in the dark for a second before making out the figure of Leo already sitting at the back of the stalls, his face ghostly in the flickering light of the screen. She felt a rush of relief to see him.

The newsreel was on, the
Ufa-Tonwochen
, which always came on before the main feature. A field full of young men wearing only shorts were performing press-ups. They were being addressed by an Obersturmbannführer about their commitment to a Fatherland of healthy comrades.

‘Hi.’

Clara took her coat off and slid into her seat. In the silver darkness Leo looked alien, the planes and angles of his cheekbones accentuated, making him appear more severe and mysterious. He smiled briefly but stared straight ahead, so Clara too, focused on the screen. The newsreel had moved on to a story about villagers in an Alpine setting gathering in last season’s harvest with their scythes. It could have been a scene straight out of the nineteenth century, with the corn making its way to vast barns where it glowed in golden heaps. The message of abundance and plenty throughout the Reich was unmistakable.

‘Have you seen our friend?’ he murmured.

‘Once or twice.’

‘How is she?’

‘Changeable. She can go from warmth to ice in an instant. She calls and asks me to see her, then she cancels.’

‘Why? Does she suspect something?’

‘I think she’s tired. She has a lot of entertainments to organize. Her husband has arranged for her to give a talk on the radio for Mothering Sunday. Then there are collections to arrange for the Winterhilfswerk – you know, raising money for coal and food for the poor. There’s the baby too. And I think she has something on her mind.’

‘His womanizing?’

‘Not that. Though there’s a new woman now. Leni Riefenstahl, the actress? He’s crazy about her, Magda says. He’s asked her to be his permanent mistress, but she rejected him.’

‘Surely Goebbels wouldn’t be that blatant? Isn’t Riefenstahl a big favourite of his boss?’

‘Yes, but someone told Magda he’d been seen looking at an apartment in Rankestrasse, near the Zoo Bahnhof. She suspects he’s looking for a safe place to take her. And I think . . .’ Clara hesitated, uncertain of whether this information was sufficiently sound to pass on, ‘she might be considering a divorce.’

Leo gave a little disbelieving snort. ‘I’d like to see the lawyer prepared to handle that.’

The newsreel had moved on to a story about Goering taking the salute at a Nazi march. Even by the rose-tinted standards of the
Tonwoche,
the crowd around him were ecstatic. It was noticeable, Clara realized, how people liked Goering. Whenever Goebbels appeared, the crowd fell silent.

‘Goebbels hates Goering. He calls him Fatso.’

Leo suppressed a grunt of amusement. ‘She said that did she?’

‘I read it in his diary.’

Leo sat up and gripped the arms of the chair. ‘A diary? My God, Clara. Where did you see that?’

‘I found it in his desk.’

It gave Clara a little glow to say this. She knew how it sounded, but she didn’t want to give Leo the idea she would be able to leaf through the Minister’s private thoughts on a regular basis.

‘I had the chance to look in his study.’

‘Does he complete it every day? Is it political, or just chit chat? Anything about the leader?’

‘I only saw a couple of pages. It looks like he writes it every few days but the entries are pretty long.’

‘And what does it say?’

‘There was stuff about the boycott on Jewish shops. How successful it was. I didn’t get a chance to see much, I’m afraid. But there was also an entry about how he and Goering have been fighting over the budget for propaganda. He wants more, but they’re spending so much money on planes.’

‘On planes? He actually wrote that?’

‘Yes. Also Goering wants to spend more on the construction of concentration camps. They’re sort of detention places for Communist enemies of the state.’

‘I know what they are.’

‘For re-educating people.’

‘That’s what he says, is it?’

The film had begun. It concerned three young girls who wanted to go to an all-boys high school, and only managed because the boys stole the exam questions on their behalf. Clara watched with interest. This, after all, was the type of film she could expect to be acting in, if her career at Ufa continued.

‘So when’s the next meeting?’

‘We’re going to have lunch at the von Ribbentrops’ house next week.’

‘Are they close friends?’

‘Hardly. Frau von Ribbentrop gives herself tremendous airs, but the others still feel superior to her. Apparently von Ribbentrop has ambitions to be Foreign Minister, but Magda says he hasn’t a hope. She says von Ribbentrop knows nothing about England except whisky and nothing about France except champagne.’

‘How are things otherwise? Do you have any sense that you might have been followed? Have you noticed anyone looking at you?’

‘Not more than usual.’

Leo’s face creased in a transitory smile. ‘I suppose a girl like you gets used to being looked at.’

Was that supposed to be a compliment? If so, it was the first time he had ever made any kind of reference to her being attractive.

She continued to stare at the screen, then said, ‘Actually, there is another thing, Leo, I wanted to ask you. A friend of mine, Helga Schmidt, needs to trace someone who’s gone missing. He’s called Bruno Weiss.’

‘The artist?’

‘You’ve heard of him?’

‘He’s rather well known.’

‘He produces posters for Ufa on the side. That’s how she met him. But she thinks he’s been arrested because he’s Jewish.’

‘More likely he’s a pamphleteer. He’s known for his Communist sympathies.’

Clara recalled the pamphlet she had found on the seat beside her at the Café Kranzler.

‘Is there anything you could do for him? Anyone you could ask?’

‘I suppose I could try.’

There was a man in the stalls below them. He was wearing a dark suit and an overcoat and had been shooting them curious glances for some time. Suddenly he got up out of his seat and walked up the aisle towards them. As he approached, without any warning Leo turned towards Clara, seized her face in his hands and kissed her full on the mouth. Seconds later, when the man had passed he released her and muttered, ‘Sorry about that.’

Clara stared at the screen. She tried to focus on the scenes of young girls arriving at school, but her mind was in tumult and her heart was hammering in her chest. She was in shock. Not because he had kissed her but because she had enjoyed it so much.

For the past five months passers-by had been peering curiously at the dilapidated mansion in Lietzenburgstrasse. Construction workers had gutted it, and now, rewired and utterly renovated, it had been transformed into the Palace of the Occult, a pagan temple decked with Carrara marble and decorated with Egyptian and Babylonian words, astrological signs and religious statues. The walls were painted in gold leaf, gessoed and inlaid. Great caryatids held up a roof that was spangled with silvery symbols and painted with airy clouds. It was a magical place, a theatrical confection of hidden doors and sliding panels and concealed spaces. And if anyone wondered who was responsible for it all, a huge bronze statue of Erik Jan Hanussen, arm uplifted in a Nazi salute, could be seen in the entrance.

There was a thin glitter of rain on the street outside but it hadn’t deterred a small huddle from lingering to watch the parade of visitors emerging from their gleaming cars to the dazzle of camera flashes. This was a reliable patch for a bit of celebrity-spotting. Since the launch a few weeks ago, politicians, celebrities, newspaper owners, princelings and aristocrats had already passed through these doors. Rupert and Mary looked around them in wonderment. In the main vestibule stood priestesses in white silk gowns which left nothing to the imagination, their nipples protruding pinkly beneath the voile. Nazi officers were stuffing themselves with canapés and helping themselves to trays of champagne as though French wine was about to go the way of Paris fashions. As they processed through the hall Rupert passed a pillar and tapped it. It gave a hollow sound.

‘Should suit the Gestapo. They say there are recording devices hidden in every one.’

‘Why?’

‘So they’ll be able to read your mind later on, of course.’

The two progressed through a series of rooms to the centre of the complex, a gloomy arena called the Hall of Silence lit by the flicker of crimson candles. A crowd waited expectantly while searchlights played on an empty stage. In the front row could be seen the uniformed figures of Hanussen’s private SA bodyguards.